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  One Meal at a Time 
 by l57371  

 House limped briskly into his office early on Monday morning. Well, early
for him. For the rest of the world it was about time for morning coffee
break. He slipped his backpack off his shoulder and made to throw it onto
his desk when he suddenly stopped. There, sitting squarely in the middle
of a pristine white napkin, was a big chocolate brownie. House blinked.

He glanced briefly into the conference room next door only to find it
deserted. Wondering briefly at the whereabouts of his minions, he turned
and glanced back toward the hallway, but there was nobody there either.
Nobody waiting to take credit for the brownie. Or wait, nobody waiting to
see what happened when he tried to eat it. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it
was laced with hot sauce or Ex-Lax. Maybe this bore a little closer
scrutiny.

Sitting down heavily in his chair he rolled himself up to his desk. He
sniffed experimentally. Nope, smelled like chocolate. Good chocolate too.
And no walnuts in the icing, that was good. Pecans he could handle, but
walnuts were just nasty. He took a tiny bit of the cake from a corner and
popped it carefully into his mouth, rolling it around his tongue. No hot
sauce. Tasted just fine. Tasted wonderful, in fact.

He dipped a pinky finger experimentally into the icing and tasted that as
well. Sweet, light, very chocolaty. Tasted just exactly the way icing was
supposed to taste. Nothing hot, nothing bitter, nothing salty or crunchy
or otherwise un-icing-like.

Throwing caution to the wind he picked it up, took a big bite out of the
corner and closed his eyes in near-orgasmic bliss. It took two more bites
before realization hit: He'd had these brownies before. He ate the last
bite, chewing slowly, thinking hard. He knew these brownies. But from
where?

Picking a most inopportune moment, his three fellows chose right then to
come barging into the conference room, gleefully waving a file around and
yelling for House to come and see what they'd found. He swallowed quickly
and rose to join them, balling up the napkin and tossing it into the bin.
It would come to him, where he'd had these before. He just had to wait it
out.

* * *

It was past lunchtime before the patient was stable enough to perform
tests on, so House unfortunately missed his meal ticket. He made his way
back to his office intent on swiping whoever's lunch he found in the
conference room mini-fridge but stopped just inside his office door. On
his desk was yet another unsolicited meal offering, this time a chicken
salad sandwich with plastic wrap over it, a bag of potato chips and a can
of Coke, complete with paper-wrapped straw.

He still hadn't come up with the origin of the brownie, and now there was
yet another mystery on his hands. Again there was nobody in the conference
room and nobody in the hall, waiting to pounce on credit or blame. He
narrowed his eyes and approached the desk warily.

Unwrapping the sandwich he took note of its most minute features, just as
he would an autopsy. Fresh white bread, both butter and mayo on it, and
chicken salad with dark meat and no nuts in it, just the way he liked it.
The chips were his favourite, original Lays, and the Coke was still cold.
Obviously his anonymous benefactor had been here only recently.

Giving a mental shrug he picked up the sandwich and started in, eating
voraciously. Half way through the second half it hit him. That brownie
tasted just like the ones Wilson's mother had made the last time they'd
been up to see his parents. Wilson had told his Mom that House didn't like
walnuts, and she specifically made a pan without them just for him.

So why was Wilson's mother making him brownies? He chewed thoughtfully,
willing his mind to come up with a reasonable explanation. His friend
hadn't been to see his parents in a while, so it wasn't that he'd brought
any back for House. Wilson's hotel room didn't even have a kitchenette,
let alone a kitchen, so he couldn't have made them himself. Did someone
else have Mrs. Wilson's recipe? That seemed unlikely as well. Wilson had
once told him the epic tale of how he had to work for weeks to get her
recipe for lasagna, and the brownie secret was much more closely guarded
than anything as common as pasta.

So the brownie had to have come from Wilson, but House had no idea how.
And that meant that the sandwich had probably come from him as well, but
it wasn't industrial fare, not from the cafeteria. The chips and Coke
probably were, but the sandwich was definitely home made. He could see the
dips and mounds in the bread where an inexpert hand using a bread knife
had tried to cut even slices, and the chicken was in random chunks, not
cut uniformly like the cafeteria made it.

Had Wilson baked the bread too? But again, he had no access to any
facility that could be used for something as time-involved and intricate
as baking bread. That required hours of work, mixing, kneading, raising,
kneading again, baking. And he'd need a good sized oven to bake it in.
This was not a feat that could be performed in a hotel room on a
hot-plate.

House's brow furrowed as he thought. Only when he nearly bit his own
finger did he realize that he'd finished the entire sandwich while he
puzzled. He picked up the napkin and started to wipe excess mayo off his
lips when he saw the man in question saunter by his door, talking to Lisa
Cuddy, hospital administrator extraordinaire. House stopped dabbing at his
mouth as he watched them walk past.

Wilson laughed lightly at something Cuddy said and then glanced into
House's office, taking in the sight of the House leaning over the residue
of his mystery lunch. He smirked slightly, then let his face dissolve into
a genuine smile for a few seconds before turning his attention back to
Cuddy and disappearing around the corner.

House remained where he was, frozen for a moment while he considered the
implications. Why was Wilson feeding him? And why was he doing it so
underhandedly? He had to know that if he really wanted House to eat, all
he had to do was lock some food up with a note threatening House with
death if he touched it. Why be so blatant about it then?

He shook his head slightly and ripped open the chips bag. If there was a
bottom to this, he'd get to it. But not before he saw what Wilson made him
for dinner.

* * *

It was quite late before House finally got home. He'd spent most of his
afternoon alternately watching Chase keep the patient alive and looming
over Cameron's shoulder as she performed tests in the lab. They still had
no idea what was wrong with him, but at least it looked like he might make
it through the night. House made his escape to the parking lot, climbed
tiredly on his Honda and rocketed for home.

He finally staggered through the door close to midnight. Tossing his
helmet and jacket on the floor, he limped tiredly over to the couch,
alternately wishing for something to eat and for a soft bed. He peered
blearily at the coffee table.

Wish granted, I see, he thought wryly. On the table was a plate with what
had to be a meal lid pilfered from the hospital's patient kitchens, and a
note taped to the top.

5 minutes in the microwave, power level 7

It had been printed out from a computer and cut out, but House knew it had
to be have been Wilson's doing. He lifted the lid. A mound of spaghetti
with bolognaise sauce, diced carrots and broccoli florets, and a small
piece of medium-well done beef all crowded together on the plate. Beside
the plate was a folded napkin and a full set of silverware, spoon
included. Smiling, he took the plate and lid to his microwave and followed
the instructions. While he was waiting he caught sight of a brand new
bottle of scotch and a tumbler on his kitchen counter. He limped over to
it and stood, looking at it, mind working furiously.

''Wilson, what are you up to?'' he said to nobody in particular, examining
the bottle closely. There was no note on this one. Frowning slightly he
ripped off the paper tape over the lid, screwed off the top and poured
himself a generous three fingers of the amber ambrosia. He slugged it
back, then took the glass and the bottle back to the coffee table. When
the microwave dinged he took the plate back to the table as well, then sat
back and dug into the sumptuous meal.

He poured himself another three fingers of scotch for dessert and polished
it off as well, then leaned his head back on the couch and closed his
eyes, letting the warmth of the alcohol and the pleasant fullness from the
pasta wash over him and lull him into a light doze. He let his mind drift
while he rummaged over the events of the day.

Wilson only ever cooks for me if he wants something or he's apologizing
for something. If he wanted something, I'd know what it was he wanted by
now because he'd have started hinting around about it after lunch. If he's
apologizing for something, it's something I don't know about. Yet.

House felt himself starting to slide toward sleep. He rubbed his eyes to
wake himself up a little. But I haven't spoken to him all day, and only
saw him the once, and he didn't look apologetic or embarrassed. He looked
sneaky. He wants something.

Finally he heaved himself up and dragged himself to the bedroom, pausing
only to take off his shoes and jeans before falling into bed. He pulled a
pillow to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, holding it close and
burying his face in it, breathing in its scent. It was the pillow Wilson
usually used when he crashed on House's couch, but House preferred to have
it in his bed when it wasn't in use. He just liked having something he
could hold while he slept, he told himself whenever he thought about it,
and he was much too old for a teddy bear.

So what does he want? was House's last thought before sleep claimed him.

* * *

He woke to the smell of bacon frying and fresh coffee. Without opening his
eyes he grinned widely and sighed into the pillow he held. He listened as
pots clattered and the bacon hissed and spit, and he could just barely
make out the sound of Wilson's tenor voice humming aimlessly as he worked.

''House, get out here and eat while it's still hot!'' Wilson hollered from
the kitchen. House stretched languidly and finally opened his eyes, only
to see Wilson now in his bedroom doorway holding a tray with bacon, eggs,
toast and coffee on it. ''Unless you'd rather eat in bed,'' he continued,
his voice soft and low.

House blinked and sat up. He opened his mouth to speak but could think of
nothing coherent to say, and closed it again. Wilson raised an eyebrow.
House opened his mouth again. ''Bed's good. I mean, here is good.'' He
looked away as his finished, feeling his cheeks flush.

''Yes, bed IS good,'' agreed Wilson, putting the tray on House's other
side as he sat down on the bed besides House's legs. ''Better than
breakfast, maybe.'' He shifted further up the bed and ran his hand along
House's leg over the covers, smiling slightly as his eyes grew dark.

House sat up quickly and snapped open his eyes. DAMMIT!

No bacon, no coffee. No Wilson, either. Just cold silence in the
apartment, oppressive and stark. He squeezed his eyes shut again trying to
recapture the heat he felt when he saw Wilson's eyes in his dream. No
good, it was gone. He sighed his disappointment to the room at large.
Well, maybe he'd get lucky and Wilson would have breakfast for him again
at work instead. No side order of Wilson though, pity.

As he dressed he mulled over again what it was Wilson could possibly want
from him that would involve a bribe of three meals in one day. If it was a
patient he needed help with, he'd have just presented House with the file
and hoped for the best. And since that was really the only thing he could
offer to Wilson, and that wasn't it, House was lost.

He wandered out to the kitchen intending to make coffee. The sight of the
barren room, no food, no ready made coffee, no Wilson, made him re-think
the plan, and he instead just donned helmet and jacket and took off for
work.

* * *

A Sausage & Egg McMuffin, a potato-patty-hockey-puck and a green apple
greeted him on his arrival at work, all on top of a folded red and yellow
McDonald's bag. Still hot, too, he noted as he moved quickly to the desk,
a slow smile spreading across his face. A quick check for witnesses - no
fellows, no hallway lurkers, no Wilson - and he sat down to breakfast.
Just as he finished up the apple the door to his office opened and Wilson
himself entered, holding two mugs of coffee.

''Good morning,'' he said brightly, carefully placing the cups on the desk
before dropping into the guest chair on the other side of the desk.

''It is now,'' House said. ''How did you know the grease level in my blood
system was dangerously low?''

''Just a hunch,'' Wilson said cryptically, sipping carefully from the
steaming mug.

House dropped the napkin he'd been holding and leaned forward, over the
desk, looking Wilson directly in the eyes. ''Why have you been feeding
me?'' he asked, voice low but insistent.

''I don't know what you're talking about,'' Wilson replied, sipping again,
his eyes roaming around the room before coming to rest on a spot about
five inches below House's chin, where his tie would be if he ever wore
one.

''You think I didn't recognize the brownies as the ones your mother made?
Lunch was ambiguous, I'll admit, but you're the only other one outside of
my parents who has a key to my place, so it had to be you that made the
spaghetti delivery last night. Either that or Cameron found my spare key
again.'' He leaned back and pinned Wilson with his 'I'm figuring you out'
gaze. ''Either you're guilty or you want something. Which is it?''

''Can't I just give you food without a motive?'' Wilson asked.

''Maybe. I don't know. It's never actually happened.''

''Okay, how about, at least this way I know you're living on something
other than beer and Vicodin.''

House veered sharply in another direction. ''Where did you bake the
bread?''

Wilson started. ''What makes you think I made the bread?''

''You made everything else, I figured the bread was probably yours as
well.''

Wilson huffed a breath across the top of his coffee mug, cooling the
drink. ''Fine. Yes, I made the bread. The hospice care wing now has a
kitchen in it for the families who stay with the patients, so they don't
always have to go to the cafeteria or out to restaurants. I used that.''

House nodded slowly. ''And the brownies too? And the dinner?''

''Yes, those too.''

''So why cook for me there and not at my place?''

Wilson paused, then said, ''If I'd done it in your kitchen, it wouldn't
have been much of a surprise, would it?''

''You wanted to surprise me?''

''Well, yes, I - No, I mean, not really. I just - Dammit, House, why do
you always have to take something nice and dissect it down to its base
elements?'' Wilson rose and began pacing the room.

''I'm not dissecting anything, I just want to know what you want.'' House
watched Wilson bounce back and forth between the glass conference room
wall and the bookcases.

''I just wanted to make you brownies.'' Wilson stopped pacing as his
beeper went off. Pulling from his belt he squinted at the tiny print on
the screen before turning toward the door. ''Gotta go, sorry.'' He
disappeared quickly down the hallway. He didn't look back once.

House kept looking down the hall where Wilson had gone, thinking
furiously. He wanted to surprise me. He turned that thought over in his
mind a few times. He wants me to eat healthy food. He wants me to eat
regular meals. He wants to surprise me with chocolate. He bought me
McGreaseBurgers for breakfast, which I know he hates but he knows I love.
He knows I love his mother's brownies. He's giving me the things I love.

He stopped and looked down, poring over the remains of his artery-clogging
breakfast.

Does he suspect I love him, too?

* * *

Wilson had effectively vanished. House could find him nowhere in the
hospital, search as he might between bouts of testing and differentials.
Finally the patient seemed to stabilize and he quickly made his escape to
the parking lot.

Pulling up to his apartment building some time later he noticed the lights
on through his apartment windows. His heart began to thud heavily in his
chest as he reached for the door, which opened without using the key. He
was greeted by the smell of sage and thyme and roasting chicken, and he
took a long sniff as soon as his helmet was off.

''I know you're in here,'' he called toward the kitchen as he dropped the
helmet and his jacket and bag on the floor.

Wilson appeared in the doorway, wooden spoon in hand. ''Surprise?''

''Not so much,'' House replied. ''Smells good. How long?''

''About an hour yet. I just put it in not too long ago. I didn't actually
expect you home so soon. Patient die?''

''No, still alive. Looks like it might stick, too.'' House hobbled past
Wilson and into the kitchen, squeezing past carefully to avoid brushing
against the other man. ''Roast chicken with stuffing?''

''And vegetables. Yes, I know, you won't eat those.'' Wilson cracked open
the door of the oven so House could get a good sniff. ''But they're
roasting with the chicken.''

House straightened up again. ''I love roasted chicken,'' he said,
pointedly not looking at the other man.

''I know,'' Wilson replied quietly, also avoiding House's gaze.

''I figured you out,'' House said lightly, switching gears.

''Did you now?''

''You're giving me things like I like - the things I ... love. The
chocolate, fresh homemade bread, the McHeartAttack. The scotch.''

Wilson moved toward the sink, began to pile the dirty dishes in it, turned
on the tap. House reached around him to turn it off and settled his hip
against the counter, facing Wilson as he stared into the sink.

''And now this, dinner, in my apartment.'' Something clicked in his head
as he watched Wilson blush furiously, keeping his gaze down and on the
dishes. ''You give me the things I love because you want to be one of
them.''

Wilson made a rude noise and turned away, heading for the fridge. ''That's
ridiculous. Everything you love comes wrapped in cellophane and in
convenient snack-sized portions.'' He pulled open the door of the fridge.

''That's not true.'' Again House reached around him. He pushed the door
shut firmly, but stayed behind the other man this time, sidling up close.
''Scotch comes in bottles, not wrapped in cellophane.''

Wilson snorted a laugh and turned around, jumping slightly when he saw how
close House really was. He brought his hand up to his neck, but House
caught it in his own and held it tight, pressing both their hands against
the door of the fridge.

''You've been trying to seduce me,'' House whispered, leaning in close to
Wilson's lips so that he brushed them with his own as he talked. ''One
meal at a time.'' He moved forward just a hair and pressed his lips
against Wilson's. The younger man made a noise deep in his throat and
pressed back.

House trailed his free hand down from Wilson's shoulder to his wrist and
brought his other hand up against the fridge door, holding them both there
tightly as he tasted Wilson's mouth, exploring teeth and tongue and lips
with his own. Without really realizing he'd done it, he'd moved closer and
was holding Wilson's entire body captive against the appliance, his chest
leaning into Wilson's, his hips grinding into the other man's hips, his
legs fitting against and inside the gap of Wilson's.

Finally they broke for air, and Wilson whispered back against House's
lips, ''Don't knock it, it worked.'' His lips searched out House's again,
nipping gently with his teeth to bring him back into the kiss. He rocked
his hips again firmly against House's, and House was gratified to feel
evidence of Wilson's arousal against his own.

''How long did you say that chicken was going to cook?'' House whispered
breathlessly as Wilson's lips and tongue blazed a trail down his throat
and under his ear.

''At least an hour,'' Wilson replied, whispering directly in House's ear,
punctuating his answer with his tongue flicking over the shell of the ear.
''Long enough.'' He pushed his hands forward against House's, making him
release his wrists from the prison of the refrigerator, and slid his arms
around House's shoulders and waist, bringing their bodies even closer
together.

Deftly he turned them, swung them around so that House was leaning back
against the counter and Wilson was leaning into him. House snaked his
hands around Wilson's waist and tugged sharply, bringing their groins
together hard and enabling him to thrust his hips slightly against
Wilson's. He felt the other man's hardness against him and thrust again,
moaning as he did so. Wilson brought his lips back to House's and
swallowed the sound into his own mouth.

Presently House felt a fumbling at his belt and knew Wilson was attempting
to undo his pants. Before he could get his head around the idea, Wilson
had them undone and was working his hands under the elastic of his
underwear. The first brush of fingertips over his cock made House gasp and
jerk his hips forward, and Wilson grinned in response. He pulled down the
elastic to free House's erection and gripped it loosely in his hand,
stroking slowly up and down.

House groaned again and bucked his hips harder. He reached behind him for
the counter top to brace himself on, mourning the loss of Wilson's soft
body under his hands. As soon as he let go, however, Wilson dropped to his
knees. House's eyes flew open and he stared down at Wilson wide-eyed. His
mouth dropped open.

Wilson grinned wickedly, then shifted his gaze to the job at hand. He blew
hot breath over House's throbbing cock, making it twitch in anticipation.
House felt his eyes slide closed again and he dropped his head back
between his shoulders. Suddenly he felt Wilson's tongue, just the tip,
touching the head of his cock, sliding up and down the slit slowly,
gently, maddeningly. Wilson's hands pressed against House's hips, keeping
him still, and House growled at the frustration of not being able to move.

Finally he felt Wilson's lips slide over the head and a little way down
the shaft, pull back, then slide a little further, pull back, and do it
again. Each time, House felt just a little bit of suction pulling on him
as Wilson moved his lips back, getting a little harder with each pull.
Finally he could feel himself nudging at the back of Wilson's throat, and
House let out a ragged breath. The next time he moved his lips down
House's cock, Wilson swallowed, and House nearly cried out at the
sensation of the muscles of Wilson's throat working around him. One of the
hands left his hip and trailed down over his belly. He could feel Wilson's
short, blunt fingernails scraping lightly through the stiff hair, then
shuddered when he felt the soft fingertips brush down the inside of his
thigh and back up again, tickling lightly over his testicles and stroking
his perineum.

His breath was coming in short, sharp pants and he chanced removing one
hand from its death grip on the countertop to place it on Wilson's head,
petting his hair, pulling lightly to bring his head closer each time he
pulled back. He fought against the instinct to pump, to fuck Wilson's
beautiful, talented mouth, and was mostly successful until he felt the
spark of orgasm shooting up his spine. House began to lose control,
thrusting his hips forward and grunting wordlessly with each pump, then
stilling as the tension wound through his limbs and the spark worked its
way up his back and through his groin. Finally the tension uncoiled with a
bang and his was coming, hard and fast, down Wilson's throat. He tangled
his fingers in Wilson's hair, holding his head still while he thrust in
and out of his mouth. Wilson, for his part, took it all, swallowing
greedily and sucking again and again until House was done.

Wilson quickly regained his feet and caught House as he slumped against
the counter, holding the limp man against himself while the shudders and
aftershocks worked their way through him. With one hand he pulled the
underwear back up and worked the jeans back over House's ass, but left
them undone, all the while running his lips over House's throat and chin
while he rested his forehead on Wilson's shoulder. Finally House recovered
enough to lift his head and get his legs stable underneath him. He pushed
himself upright.

''That,'' he began, looking Wilson straight in the eye, ''was not an
amateur blow-job.''

Wilson smiled. ''Why thank you.''

''Not what I meant,'' House growled, pushing against the other man and
slipping out from between him and the counter.

''I'm going to choose to take it as a compliment anyway.'' Wilson fell
back and let House move away.

''You would.'' House had reached the door of the kitchen, where he had
left his cane upon entering. ''Coming?''

''Where?''

''The couch, of course.'' House looked over his shoulder at Wilson. ''I'm
not up to any floor routines, sorry.''

Wilson hurried after him and grunted in surprise when House stopped him in
front of the couch with a deep, slow, open-mouthed kiss that left him
breathless and panting. House's hand trailed down Wilson's chest and over
his stomach, rubbing gently over the front of his pants, tracing around
Wilson's own erection until he was moaning helplessly.

House broke away and sat down on the edge couch and slouched into the back
of it. He pulled Wilson onto the couch with him so that his knees were
straddling over House's waist and his groin lined up with House's face.
Quickly House undid the belt and button and fly, pushing aside the pants.
He could see the outline of Wilson's erection in his briefs, and blew a
breath of hot air over it, listening to Wilson gasp. He dragged his tongue
over the hot fabric, letting the saliva soak into the cotton.

''Oh, god, House! Please!'' Wilson moaned, his hips twitching forward in
anticipation.

House smirked as he pulled slowly at the elastic of the underwear, sliding
it down over the other man's ass, then carefully lifting it over his
quivering cock. He watched Wilson's cock spring free of its confines and
bob in front of his face, taunting him.

He wrapped his hands around Wilson's hips and pulled hard, taking in as
much as he could of Wilson's cock in one go, and was rewarded with a
strangled shout as Wilson dropped his head back and gripped his hands
tightly on the back of the couch. House pulled him back and then forward
again by his hips, plunging Wilson's cock into his mouth roughly, quickly.
Over and over he guided Wilson into his mouth, letting him fuck his mouth
mercilessly.

''Oh - oh - uh - Oh god, House! Yes!'' Wilson was moaning and gasping,
spewing nonsense and grunting in time to his thrusting until his voice
became strained and reedy. He stilled his motions for a second, quivering
and tensing, and House took that moment to stroke a finger back from
Wilson's testicles, over his perineum and up the crack of his ass.

Wilson came with a guttural moan, thrusting raggedly into House's mouth
until he was utterly spent, hanging over the back of the sofa, head in his
hands, breathing harshly. House let his softening dick fall from his lips,
placed a light kiss on his belly and wrapped his arms around Wilson's
hips, pulling him down and off the back of the sofa and into his arms.
Unconsciously Wilson shifted his weight to the right, keeping it off of
House's bad leg.

House held him through the shudders and he came down and finally opened
his eyes. He pulled back a little and looked straight into House's face.

''I can't believe it was food that finally got through to you.''

House raised his eyebrows. '''Got through' to me? What is that supposed to
mean?''

Wilson snorted and said, ''I've been flirting with you for years and
you've never once noticed.''

''Oh, I noticed,'' House said, licking lightly along Wilson's lips,
leaving quick kisses as he went. ''I just don't know what you want with an
old cripple is all.''

''I think we've already established what I want,'' Wilson replied. ''And
what you want.''

''I want dinner. We can discuss dessert afterwards.'' House nipped lightly
at Wilson's chin and then pushed him of his lap, rising to go to the
kitchen.

Wilson followed quickly. ''Mmm, I love dessert.''

  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.